A Fine Tops'l Breeze: Volume Two in the War of 1812 Trilogy

by William White

  “Get that British flag up. Smartly now. Let ‘em know we’re one o’ their own.” Dickerson would try a ruse first, as fighting seemed a bad alternative, especially if the vessel ahead turned out to be a frigate, as the lookout thought. It was only a matter of minutes before Biggs was back on the quarterdeck confirming that it certainly appeared to be a frigate, and seemed to be under a press of canvas on a course set to cut off the Hopewell.

  “Sail astern – sail astern!” The lookout in the maintop was pointing and gesturing frantically aft. The men on the quarterdeck could just make out a blur almost directly in their wake. Could be the top hamper of a ship pursuing them or a cloud. Biggs spoke what Dickerson was thinking.

  “We surely don’t need that right now. A British frigate bearing down on us and possibly one comin’ up astern. Mebbe that’s Shannon decided to come get us after all. I ain’t lookin’ to spend time on some Halifax prison ship.”

  Dickerson finished the thought with “Nor swimmin’ in this sea. It’s the devil’s choice we got.” He paused, then added, “Hurry the men along with they’s vittles and then get some of these little guns rigged out…unless you got another plan, like you done last night?”

  “Nothin’ comes to mind, but we surely will clear for action quick as ever you please. Mayhaps they’ll leave us alone, seein’ the British flag aloft.” He thought to himself, Ain’t likely for that, I’d reckon. Then added, Wish this old barley could sail like one of them sharp-built schooners. Wouldn’t have this problem then.

  He began to organize the men to action stations, even while some were still finishing what was being passed off as a meal. At least this new threat made Jenkins’ foul-tasting scouse seem less onerous than had they had ample time to eat and consider alternatives. A bad-tasting meal was right now the least of their worries, as Isaac reminded the few chronic complainers, Weasel Watkins at the forefront of them.

  A shouted curse, including something about “poison” followed by a crash, drifted up from below the quarterdeck in the area of the cabin. Dickerson smiled to himself, recollecting Isaac’s cryptic words about Captain Stephens and Jenkins’ scouse. He looked at his quartermaster at the helm and remarked dryly, “Reckon Cap’n Stephens got his vittles. Probably wasn’t used to Jenkins’ abilities in the galley.”

  He turned to Tight-Fisted Smith who was on the break of the quarterdeck. “Likely ought to go down there and see that we don’t have another problem with the good cap’n like last night. Mister Biggs can help you if you need it, seein’ as how Cap’n Stephens knows him. Ha!”

  Smith nodded, said “Aye” and departed; he didn’t think the mate would be needed for a simple job like securing a man in a chair.

  “Good mornin’ Cap’n. I come down here to help you keep from gettin’ yerself shot again.” Smith looked around the cabin, and smiled to himself. Remnants of the now infamous scouse dripped from the bulkheads with a concentration close to the door frame. The larger pieces of a broken pottery bowl lay on the deck along with some of the suspect meat from the repast. “I see you got your vittles. Hope you saved some to eat; we’re gonna be a little busy topside, and you likely won’t get no more for a while…probably won’t be much better, neither.” This last Smith added more for his own benefit than the captain’s. He gestured to the man’s gimbaled cot across one section of the quarter gallery.

  “Cap’n, would you just lay down there on that bunk? I got to secure you here so’s you don’t get yerself hurt or cause Cap’n Dickerson no problems.”

  “Lay in my bunk so you can tie me up again? Not on your life, sailor. You are part of those pirates that took my ship. You can rot in hell for all I care, and I shan’t cooperate with you for any reason. You may tell your captain that I aim to see him hanged for the pirate he is, and the rest of you with him…unless you might be willing to help me out of here, young man. I am not a wealthy man, but I would see you got a substantial reward for your efforts. If you’re going to be busy as you indicated, it must mean there’s a British ship – my guess is Tenedos – getting close. Were I to be rescued, and my ship, of course, I could see to it…”

  The bosun’s call sounded on deck, filtering below softly, but nonetheless insistently. Smith stepped up to the man and looking him directly in the eyes, said, “Sorry, Cap’n, you ain’t given me no choice now. I got work to do and I ain’t got time to stand here listening to you carry on.” Having said that, Smith swung from his hip and landed a solid right fist in the captain’s jaw. The man collapsed in a heap, and Smith picked him up and dropped him unceremoniously on the cot, tying him securely with the line he had brought with him. Finished, he checked his handiwork, winked at the smiling guard and left, closing the door behind him.

  By the time Smith returned to the deck, the flurry of activity had increased and, with it, the tension. The approaching British frigate was clearly visible from the deck, and those eyes not glued to this menacing form were focused on the top hamper of the vessel closing them from astern; that ship’s course had not varied, and it was clear that Hopewell was the stranger’s intended destination. Smith watched the ship astern; from its angle, he could not determine its rig, but she was flying everything they could find in the sail locker and gaining ground on the Americans with every passing minute. Biggs happened by and noticed the sailor’s stare.

  “This ought to prove interesting. I’d reckon we gonna be some busy in an hour or so. Just trying to figger my own self which one was gonna get us in range first. Reckon it’ll be that frigate comin’ down on us to wind’ard.”

  “What do you think, Isaac? How we gonna fight our way out o’ this? Those little guns we got ain’t even gonna get they’s attention. By the time they’s in range, those eighteen-pounders on that frigate’ll have pounded this little barky into matchwood.” Smith had suddenly realized that this uneven match could have fatal consequences, and Isaac hoped he would not unravel when the splinters started flying.

  “I’m sure Dickerson has something planned, Smith. See if you can help out Hogan gettin’ them gun crews organized.” Biggs watched as Smith headed forward, looking for the gunner, then he turned and moved easily toward the quarterdeck, hoping all the while that Dickerson really did have a plan worked out.

  “Isaac, I ain’t Asa Rogers; I figgered to bear off and try and run for it if that frigate smokes our ruse of flying the British flag. If that don’t work, I reckon we just gonna have to take our lickin’. I know Cap’n Rogers would figger out somethin’, but I only once had a prize attacked, and I got lucky; we got into shoal water, and that Brit barky put herself right onto the hard chasin’ me. Har har har.”

  His laugh had a maniacal ring to it. He continued, the false smile leaving his face as quickly as it had come, replaced with the furrows on his forehead that Isaac had seen frequently of late. “Here I don’t reckon they’s any shoal water for us to run to. And that cove comin’ up astern don’t sit real good, neither; don’t know who he might be. Don’t quite make sense they’d be sending two frigates after us, less’n this barky’s carryin’ somethin’ mighty important that we ain’t found yet.” Dickerson looked ruefully at the ship gaining on them from astern, then to the two masts on Hopewell.

  “Isaac, put some men aloft an’ see about settin’ some more canvas. You gonna have to figger somethin’ out about where to put it; we’re set to the t’gallants now, and onliest thing I can think to add might be some stu’ns’ls, but I’d warrant this barky ain’t rigged for ‘em. I’m gonna bear off some now an’ see if she’ll pick up a mite. Surely do hope this wind don’t die out on us…helmsmen, ease her off a point…for’ard, there!” he shouted. “Ease your sheets…mind the braces, there. Trim out the spanker. Look lively, men.” Further encouragement was unnecessary; each man was acutely aware of the twin perils closing in on their prize.

  Biggs rounded up some men, canvas, and line for the additional sail and kept an eye on the two vessels approaching. The British frigate kept coming and, in fact, had altered her course sl
ightly in response to the alteration made by Hopewell. The ship astern was still gaining ground, but didn’t appear to have changed course. Isaac noted unhappily that he could see her hull now, not just the rig as he had only a short while ago. No one as yet could identify her.

  Aloft on the mainmast, Isaac directed his men at jury-rigging some additional sail, realizing that an additional back stay on the mainmast would add some stability to the rig and reduce the risk of the mast going overboard should the wind increase, as all hands actively hoped. As he started for the deck, he glanced for the hundredth time at the ship astern; she looked familiar, and with the changed angle due to Hopewell’s new course, he could see she was two-masted and likely a brig. While all of this information registered in his brain, it was not until he arrived at the quarterdeck that the implication struck him; it was General Washington! He shared this good news with Dickerson, who merely shook his head.

  “Reckon that frigate comin’ down on us’ll take him too, then. What can a little brig do against a thirty-eight-gun ship.” He answered his own question; “No more’n us, I’d warrant.” He turned back to look astern, and from the slump of his shoulders, Isaac could see he held little hope for their escape. It was worth a fight, though, Isaac thought, and he expressed his feelings to Ezra Dickerson.

  “I don’t aim to go swimmin’ in this water today – or tomorrow, for that matter – so think about this. If us and the Gen’l both go after that frigate we might chase him off. I remember once when I was a kid seein’ a dog – an’ come to think on it, a big one – drove off by three cats. And they wasn’t but little ones. I think we could give those Brits somethin’ to think on if we was to try, and could get Cap’n Rogers to see what we was doin’.” Isaac’s impassioned plea stirred something in the prize master; he turned to look astern at the closing brig, then back at the British frigate on their windward bow, still coming on with a bone in her teeth. He again looked back at the brig, then took his glass, purloined from Captain Stephens’ cabin, and studied her carefully before turning back to his mate.

  “Here, Isaac, have a look-see. I think Cap’n Rogers just might think we’s British and lookin’ to take us as a prize his own self. He’s showin’ the American flag on his gaff. Unless he thinks he can outsail that frigate, he must be crazy to think he could snatch a Brit merchant right out from under the nose of a warship! How can we let him know it’s us? Think, man. He’s got to see that frigate.” Dickerson’s frustration gave way to desperation, but Isaac wasn’t yet ready to strike.

  “I don’t know; if we fire a gun for’ard, the Brits on the frigate’n know we ain’t British, and if we fire one aft, Cap’n Rogers’n think we surely are British. Hang on, there. What would happen if we bore off even more – away from that frigate? Them Brits might think we was just trying to get away from the Gen’l, but Cap’n Rogers would see us turning away from the very guns we should be runnin’ under to protect us. That might make him think about it, anyway. Too bad we cut them boats adrift last night after them visitors from Shannon came callin’; Cap’n would know for sure who we was then. That’s the onliest thing I can came up with, Ezra; just turn her down a trifle more and see what happens. Cain’t hurt, anyhow, and might even pick us up half a knot. Or at least it would if this bucket’s bottom wasn’t so foul with weeds and barnacles.”

  “Helmsmen, ease her off a point; forward there – look alive! Ease the sheets, we’re bearing off some.” Dickerson agreed with Biggs that this action might signal Rogers a clue as to their identity, without giving up anything to the folks on Tenedos. Both men watched the brig to see what, if any, action their course change might provoke.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  He’s going to engage her, Isaac! Lookee there! Them Brits are bearin’ off some an’ headin right for the Gen’l. Looks like they’re gonna wear ship to pass to weather of Gen’l Washington an’ hit her with a full broadside. ’Pears they’ve forgot about us. Guess they must of bought that Brit flag we got up there. I surely wouldn’t want to be on the Gen’l now…no siree, not lookin’ down the throats of that many eighteen-pounders. Gawd a’mighty, I don’t even want to think about what them guns gonna do to the old Gen’l. You reckon Cap’n Rogers’ll strike, Isaac?

  “Not on your life, Ezra. I don’t know the man real good, but that don’t strike me as somethin’ he’d be likely to do. From the things I heard about him, he’ll come up with some trick or other to confound them Brits.” Isaac wasn’t about to quit, and couldn’t fathom the ‘smartest privateer cap’n in New England’ bein’ unable to outsail or at least outfox a slow British frigate who’s captain had to be burdened with conventional tactics for naval engagements. Never mind he was outgunned by a huge measure, both in barrels and in weight of metal.

  Tenedos drew on, unwavering in her determination to cut off the pursuing American privateer from his intended chase, the merchant showing British colors. The alteration in course made by Hopewell went unanswered by the frigate and Hopewell continued away from the immediate scene of potential horror. Biggs and his captain watched as the play unfolded before them; General Washington held her course, continuing on a reach which would have carried them across Tenedos’ bow, had the frigate not worn ship to open her broadside to the intruder. The tension on Hopewell’s quarterdeck grew heavy and the silence was testimony to the significance of the drama playing out before the Americans. Finally, Dickerson spoke.

  “Lookee there, Isaac. Them Britishers musta fell for our ruse; they’s forgot completely about us. Must figger we’re safe now from that American brig. I hope to God Cap’n Rogers kin handle a broadside from ‘em.”

  “Don’t think he’s gonna let ‘em fire a broadside at him, Ezra. And I’d warrant he’s figgered out who we are and my guess is he’s gonna keep that frigate busy so’s we can get away. And I don’t reckon he plans on losin’ the Gen’l in the bargain.”

  “He’s hardenin’ up, Biggs. Look. The Gen’l’s comin’ around – looks like she’s gonna pass across the frigate’s bow.”

  As the men on the quarterdeck, and now most of the hands on Hopewell, watched, General Washington bore up with barely a shiver in her sails; it was obvious now that Captain Rogers intended to cross the frigate’s bow and likely would fire his own broadside to rake the British vessel from forward. Tenedos would be unable to fire little but her bow chasers in response.

  Biggs and Dickerson exchanged looks; it was as if they were mentally linked and thinking with one brain. The prize master moved to the wheel, and quietly instructed the helmsmen to bring the brig up closer to the wind – and the pending action. Isaac stepped off the quarterdeck, directing men to trim sails and ease the braces, while at the same time sending Ben Stone and Tight-Fisted Smith aloft with their limited gang of topmen to reduce sail area so Dickerson could more easily control the speed of his ship. Gunner Hogan quickly assessed the situation, and called to the quarterdeck.

  “Which side, Cap’n?”

  “Larboard will be engaged, Gunner.” Ezra smiled to himself, pleased and relieved that his crew – or at least the petty officers – had figured out his plan and appeared to support it.

  Hogan grabbed a handful of sailors who had finished heaving on sheets and braces and set them to shifting the few six pounders from the starboard side to larboard. He nodded to one man, who having realized there would not be enough ports for the extras, began to hack away at the bulwark with an ax, making room for the additional guns. As Biggs released sail handlers and Stone’s men returned from aloft, all hands got busy preparing to take their ship into action. Powder was brought on deck, along with the limited shot and kegs of nails they had found in the armory. With the light weight of the broadside and the severely restricted resources of ammunition available, all hands understood that there would be only one chance to help their shipmates on the General.

  The men on deck interrupted their work preparing for battle long enough to handle sails while Dickerson tacked Hopewell around, and now the prize master had her hea
ded across the wind on a course that would intersect the frigate’s wake at ninety degrees. He could see the privateer holding true a course that would cross the British bow, and hoped the two ships would cross the frigate at about the same time. Through his glass, he could see figures on the British quarterdeck watching his most curious action. Suddenly, one began gesturing at Hopewell waving his arms in an obvious attempt to tell the merchant to bear off and stand clear. Moments later, a hoist fluttered to the Tenedos’ main yard. The helmsman on the merchant looked questioningly at his captain. Dickerson shrugged and replied to the unasked question from his sailor.

  ‘‘I’d reckon they’s tellin’ us to get clear so’s we don’t get wounded in the fight what’s about to commence. Hold your course.” The uncertainty and despondency so evident a few short moments ago were gone, replaced by a sense of urgency and grit as he faced the huge odds against him. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his cheeks working visibly, as he thought of the short odds of success in this endeavor. He looked aloft at his own main mast then called out to one of the men nearby.

  “Find you an American flag, lad, and stand by to hoist it aloft quick as ever you can when I tell you…and get that British one down at the’ same time.”

  He watched the British quarterdeck, particularly the officer who had been watching him, and apparently still was. The Englishman lowered his glass and turned to speak to someone close at hand – might be the captain, Dickerson thought. He watched as both the Englishmen now studied Hopewell through their long glasses. Another officer joined them and drew their attention forward, where General Washington’s intentions were beginning to dawn on the British officers. For the moment anyway, Hopewell was not a concern; all the English eyes were forward.

  “I’ll take her now. You can help out with them guns for’ard…and send Mister Biggs aft, if you please.” Dickerson relieved the helmsman, preferring to drive his ship into the dangerous confrontation himself. It would save time in maneuvering and Biggs would be there to coordinate sail handlers and gun crews.